


Somewhat  Interconnected Vignettes in the World of Curt/Arthur

by invisiblechick



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Food smut, Humor, M/M, POV First Person, PWP, Post-Movie(s), Slash, Vignettes, because i only ever wrote the smex once, chemically imbalanced marine life, flush, i will leave you hanging, loose narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisiblechick/pseuds/invisiblechick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See title.  All originally posted in 2005/2006 on LiveJournal, under the name terkey.  Basically, Curt and Arthur accidentally find each other, and accidentally form a life around one another.   All told from the POV of Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scene One - Untitled

I watch him walk away. I seem to have spent a lifetime doing that, watching as his hips swing away from me, his shoulders slumped to block his body from the world. First, backstage, then on the roof, and now years later from this shitty little bar. Will there ever be a time when Curt walks towards me, when I am not the one following, then losing, him? Will that debauched and debonair leer ever be more than just a backwards glance, more than just an Instamatic moment frozen in my memory for years of fantasies and wanks? Someday maybe, could it be an invitation to more: a life, a lifestyle of color and light, rather than my present world of infinite grayscale?

Walking out of the dive, Oscar Wilde’s pin still beer sticky gripped in my fist, the coolness of the air is a shock. Not nearly, however, as much a shock as the sight of platinum hair and scruffy leather walking towards me. There is no trace of the smile that has driven nearly a decade of fantasy, but a look of determination that hints of fantastic new realities.

“I forgot something,” a cigarette and beer scarred voice caresses from mere feet away.

My tentative and slightly shaking had reaches out, offering the pin, along with all my hopes. Curt must have changed his mind.

“No, I didn’t forget that, Arthur, Arthur Stuart. This,” and suddenly all my air is gone, offered up in sacrifice to the taste of stale tobacco and dark brews. My new favorite taste in the world.


	2. Scene Two - Real

“What do you fantasize about?” The question comes from behind me in the dark, a whisper against the small hairs of my neck. What a silly question, didn’t he realize that my every fantasy was this moment right now: me, in his arms, naked and warm with the afterglow of his love? Without meaning to, I chuckle, low in my chest, the vibrations causing glorious friction between his chest and my back.

“You, since the day I saw a picture of you caught in a kiss with…” I hold back on saying that name. It may be thanks to him that we are together, in a roundabout sort of way, but he is not welcome in this moment, welcome in this bed. “Anyway, from that second on, my every fantasy was to be the one being worshiped by your tongue, being held in your arms.” To be the one you love… the darkness makes me bold, lets me tell him the secrets I don’t even admit to myself, normally, but even in my current sated state I know I cannot say that. Who speaks of love after one night, though technically now two, no matter how glorious and life altering that night may be?

“I used to lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of all that suburban emptiness pressing on my chest, and imagine you taking me away with you. We would travel the world, you on stage, me standing to the side, your biggest fan, waiting for you to call me on stage for one song, and you would kiss me in front of these arena-size audiences. They would all know who I was, Arthur Stuart, Curt Wilde’s lover. Then we would go back to whatever hotel we were staying at, and you would undress me and take me in every way I could imagine. Of course, since I had never done anything, I don’t think I imagined too many interesting things.” His hands are moving on me now, one rubbing up and down my arm, while the one I am laying on reaches up to play with a nipple. It seems almost absentminded; I can feel him listening to me, just as I can feel his semi-renewed interest digging into the curve of my hip. He is silent though, save for the soft breaths that still puff along my neck.

I begin to slowly, teasingly grind back into him as I continue my tale. He wanted my fantasies: he would hear them all. “Life forced me to save myself, and suddenly I was in London, shacking up with a band. Anytime one of them took me in their mouth it was you I felt. Each time I returned the favor, it was you that I was pleasuring. They were good blokes, don’t get me wrong. Nothing was forced, we were friends, and we were having fun. But they weren’t…” you, I want to say. “And then, one night, I found myself standing backstage while you writhed on the stage floor in front of me, and it seemed my fantasies had come alive. You took me in your arms on that roof; you gave me everything I had desired, and more. You taught me more in that one night about pleasure and joy than I got out of all the years before…or since.” There is a moment when his arms leave me and I hear the sound of paper ripping, and I know he has opened one of the condoms we left lying on the bed earlier. 

Suddenly, Curt is above me, and I am flat on my back. He surrounds me, his arms on either side of my head, his body from waist down nestled between my legs, his face mere inches from my own. “Keep talking,” his gruff voice commands as he hitches my legs over his shoulders. His mouth teases my nipples, as he positions himself at my entrance. He seems to be waiting for me to comply before entering, though, so I go on. Somehow, I manage to keep speaking, when all I want to do is groan and pant.

“You taught me about heartbreak the next morning, with the sun came reality and you gone from my life. I ran away from England, from the world that had meant everything to me, the glitter and glamour that had made me feel special, gifted if for only a little while.” Suddenly he is in me, filling me more completely than I could imagine. “I came here, got a job, worked my way up, pretended to be the same as everyone else around me. Went out with a couple girls, even. When they tried to touch me, kiss me, one even tried to fuck me, it was always you I remembered.” He is moving slowly, torturing me with his gentleness, seeming to follow the cadence of my words. 

I have to kiss him before I go on; need to feel that connection from every end. He still tastes like stale cigarettes and beer, but now he also tastes like me, like sex, and my favorite taste has changed yet again. “Late at night, curled on my shitty little bed in my ugly little apartment, it was you I dreamed of. I couldn’t pretend all the time. I dreamed that you were hunting me down all these years, frantic you had left me. I dreamed you would find me, and claim me in the middle of the office, and everyone would applaud. You would drag me to the nearest bathroom and fuck me into next week. Then hold me forever.”

“Fuck, you have a thing for PDA’s don’t you?” He is no longer keeping back; his thrusts are erratic, as he bangs into me. I would laugh, I would wonder what the fuck a PDA is, but his hand is now pumping me for all it is worth, and even my ability to speak is gone. With one last, deep thrust, he bites into my collarbone, marking me as his. Then, with a final, swift twist of the wrist, I follow him.

We lie there, still joined, trying to regain lost breath, holding each other hard enough to bruise, but neither daring to move.

“I didn’t mean to break your heart.” I feel the words more than hear them as they are mumbled into my chest. “I guess I should have known it was your first time,” Only time, actually… “But I was drunk, and you were so fucking beautiful. But I had shit to work out, and I thought I was just a trophy fuck to you, anyway.” He is looking at me now, his eyes boring into mine, begging for my understanding. I am holding him in my arms, his cock embedded in a place where only he has ever been, doesn’t he realize that I do understand, that it was my understanding that led us to this point tonight?

I just give him a smile and say, “What do you fantasize about?”


	3. Scene Three - Untitled Nacho Porn

How could he do that? Just sit there; eating, drinking, talking as if there was nothing going on? How could he not realize what he was doing to me? Of course, it was my fault really; I’m the one that wanted to impress him with my cooking. Wanted to show off my “special dish,” of course it was also my only dish. Nachos, made out of desperation once when I was still a starving cub reporter, much elaborated and improved upon since.

I never thought how it would affect me to watch him bring each bite to his mouth. With his hands, because nachos are eaten with the hands. With the fingers. In his case with fingers topped with nails, beautiful nails painted black. Always black, always slightly chipped, and always abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. Those nails that snag themselves in my hair as he devours my mouth in a kiss. Those nails that scratch my back as he rides me to completion. Those nails that tickle my feet to wake me up in the morning.

There he goes again! He isn’t letting even one morsel escape his mouth, licking chili off his fingers with nearly every bite. How can I help but stare at those nails as they disappear into his mouth. Oh, lord, his mouth. Those lucky bastard fingers, I know how wonderful that mouth feels. Lucky bastard mouth, I should be the one laving those fingers, tasting the chili, and under it the chemical taste of nail enamel.

Fuck it! As he brings the next chili and cheese covered chip to his mouth (he has avoided the refried beans and anything resembling a vegetable the entire meal) I can’t help the growl that emits from my throat as I reach across the table and grab his wrist. He quirks an eyebrow in surprise, but doesn’t say a word as I pull his hand to my mouth and eat the chip right out of it, making sure to knock some chili and cheese sauce onto his fingers first. Then, after the chip is gone, I start licking. “Mine,” I say as I lick each painted nail, rubbing my tongue into each cuticle, letting no molecule of nacho escape. When they are all licked clean, I suck the first two fingers into my mouth, pumping them in and out, as I look him in the eye.

“Fuck,” is all he can manage to say before he is out of his chair, and dragging me out of mine.


	4. Scene Four - Personality Disorders in Walruses

“God, I hate this!” I stared at the cursor blinking on the nearly blank screen in front of me. It was mocking me, I just knew it. 

_Personnel at the Central Park Zoo find themselves in quite a conundrum..._ blink, blink, blink.

“What? Your computer? I thought you loved all that technology shit.” Curt looked up from across the room, where he was lounged on my bed, reading Rolling Stone. Of course, in my minuscule flat, across the room meant three feet behind me, but I like the illusion of space.

“No, I hate that I can't think of anything to write! I have a fucking nine am deadline, and all of twelve words. I'm totally fucked! Who the fuck cares about some fucking walrus named Susan with a personality disorder? How the fuck do they even know it has a personality disorder? And who the bloody fuck named a walrus Susan? And you aren't helping at all!” I admit I was freaking out, but seriously, Susan? Ever since Curt and I got together I was getting one shit assignment after another, none of them remotely related to music. And this, this was just the topper. And Curt had to lay there, looking like sex and summertime, while I was stuck all the way on the other side of the room!

“Me? What the fuck did I do? I'm just laying here reading a fucking magazine! I haven't even turned on the TV!” Curt looked more confused than annoyed, but he must have been both, because he rarely ever strung so many words together when a simple eye-roll or flash of his dick would suffice. Fuck, now I'm thinking about Curt's dick!

“Yes, laying there. Half naked and making the bedsprings squeak so all I can think about is sex. It isn't fair, how can I be expected to think?”

“Half naked? I have my fucking shoes off! Which you told me I had to take off before I was allowed on your shitty little bed.”

“Well, they're very distracting feet, Curt. All long and soft, and covered in...toes.” Alright, not even I thought that argument would work.

“Arthur love, first, my feet are not covered in toes. They have exactly ten, located exactly where they're supposed to. Second, you need a break. Especially if my hairy toes are enough to distract you.”

“But...nine am! I don't have time! And your toes aren't hairy, my toes are hairy!”

“That's twelve hours from now, I've seen you throw together pieces in twelve minutes. I'm not lying here listening to you moan for the rest of the night! At least, not from across the room and not about some fucking fluff piece on some fucking depressed walrus at the zoo!” He purposely ignored my toe comment. He's a wise man sometimes. And I have never submitted a story that was written in twelve minutes, that would be unethical, or un-journalistic, or un-something.

“Oh, and what would you rather I moaned about?”

The only answer I received was a low chuckle and a slight tilt of the head.

“But...”

“Fine, then I guess I'll have to do my own moaning.”

I watched, riveted, as Curt slid his hand under his faded black turtleneck. My flat was always cold, and he had remembered to wear something other than his normal t-shirt and leather jacket combo. Caught on his wrist, the jumper traveled north, allowing for a glimpse of navel, and the fine dark hairs leading both up and down his abdomen. I could see the bulk of his hand under the soft knit as it plucked at one nipple.

“Uhhhhh...”

The soft sound brought my eyes up to Curt's face, lips parted, tongue just visible, eyes open wide and looking straight at me. For a moment, I felt they were looking into me. Then the bastard smiled, that evil ebullient grin that cut his face in half and never failed to destroy all rational and irrational thought. How could I be expected to write, when I couldn't even think?

“Mmmmmm...”

His unoccupied hand had made its way down to his jeans, and was slowly working open the zip.

Beneath which, he was wearing no pants. Apparently concessions for the cold only went so far. “God Arthur...get the fuck over here...” he groaned, grabbing his erection as it sprang free.

Behind me I had a story I didn't want to write for a job I no longer really gave a damn about. In front of me I had the man of my dreams, slowly wanking himself while moaning my name and not wearing pants. The decision wasn't difficult.


	5. Final - Poem - Ten in One

glitter and aching  
sweat and moonlight  
My first memory of you

beer and barsmoke  
gemstone and epiphanies  
My second memory of you

need and fantasies  
truth and lovebites  
My third memory of you

talk and nachocheese  
hunger and nailpolish  
My fourth memory of you

whiskey and abandonment  
pride and acquaintances  
My fifth memory of you

grief and keening  
graves and gravity  
My sixth memory of you

smoke and eyeliner  
leather and freedom  
My seventh memory of you

anger and accusation  
fear and jealousy  
My eight memory of you

sunday and comfortable  
sleep and nuzzling  
My ninth memory of you

rings and promises  
love and forever  
My tenth memory of you

snapshots of sight smell sound  
ten to link from he and I to the  
glory of "we"


End file.
